I like to write junk...

HEAT THERAPY

“After doing the necessary research, my finding was not good.”

On July 9, 1957, my father was riding ‘shotgun’ in a 1956 Chevrolet Corvette, on Route 66 in Victorville, California. The car owner, James F. McKenzie, was showing Dad how his new sports car handled. Before I go further, I’ve been asked numerous times if this vehicle was “fuel-injected.” Vintage photos show it was not.

Losing traction on a long curve, the Corvette left the road and went airborne, tossing both men free. Dad landed in a large sandpile at a brick-making plant, which undoubtedly saved his life, of course, only through the grace of God. I was three at the time and do not remember anything about this accident.

With the bone in his right leg shattered in several areas, a metal rod was attached to it for strength. My father walked with a limp the rest of his life. Only close friends could get away with calling him “Hopalong Cassidy” or “Chester.” Both of these characters were from Western movies, each cowboy walking with a pronounced limp.

Cold weather affected Dad, making his leg ache when it was exposed to low temperatures or on damp, rainy days. Spending a good many years in Alaska, he eventually moved to Sequim, Washington, finding the rainy weather there no better for relief than the frigid winters of Anchorage.

Tired of aches and pains, my father finished out the rest of his life in Henderson, Nevada, where a much warmer climate made for less suffering. Dad told me several times that he wished he had relocated years previously, as there was a night and day difference in his bone and joint stiffness.

On July 3, 1982, I was riding my bicycle in Anchorage, and while crossing a busy street, I was hit by a pickup truck. The impact sent me flying, with most of the trauma done to my right leg. Arriving at Providence Hospital by ambulance, after the doctor finished with me, as if physical injury wasn’t enough, I was presented a ticket by a policeman for failure to yield.

Since that accident, I have sporadic bouts of leg pain, especially while hiking or riding a bike. It got to the point where I couldn’t shovel snow, as my pain intensity was off the scale. On vacations to Arizona, I noticed a significant lessening of pain there. Returning to Alaska, the stiffness always returned.

Winters in Lake Havasu City, although much warmer than Anchorage, still have me moaning to myself as I attempt to do certain chores or stand on my feet too long. I attribute this to the severe bone bruising my leg took 34 years ago. Doctor Meinhardt told me this might happen.

Hot weather is not far away, and with it comes “heat therapy,” as I like to call things. Free of charge, this warmth after hitting my bones makes for a night-and-day difference in the way I feel. Whereas I used to not look forward to the scorching heat, I now view it as a welcome respite. I’ll take heat over pain any day.

It seems ironic that I ended up with the same affliction as Dad, although my leg injury was much less severe. I sometimes walk with a slight limp, with the only one making light of it, my wife. Joleen jokingly says that I could now perfectly play the role of “Chester” on “Gunsmoke.” I take that as a compliment!

Getting back to Dad’s accident, and some still unanswered questions, I always wondered what happened to the friend he was riding with that day. Dad never mentioned him, so I’m guessing they lost touch. After doing the necessary research, my finding was not good.

Sadly, 15 years after the first crash, on February 24, 1973, James Franklin McKenzie, the son of a coal miner, was behind the wheel of a vehicle in Louisville, Kentucky, when it veered off Dixie Highway and overturned. James F. McKenzie, age 31, was killed on impact.

PETRIFIED WOODY

“There’s been a call by Native Americans and Park Rangers for people owning Petrified Forest rock and objects made from it to return them to the desert.”

Sometimes, I come across vintage postcards that make me chuckle, although the people who wrote them probably weren’t laughing at the time. The latest one involves a mother telling her son and daughter-in-law about a car trip she was on in Arizona.

I visualize this older couple driving a station wagon, towing a recently purchased camp trailer. That was the norm in the late 1950s and early 1960s. My parents owned a 1963 Buick Invicta station wagon, and it was quite comfortable on trips. We took it to Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, and several camping trips while towing a small camper.

The postcard I refer to was sent to Mr. & Mrs. Martin Kenshaw in Upper Darby, Pennsylvania. I’m sure Martin got some giggles after reading it, although his wife may have chastised him for making light of the situation. Afterall, this was Martin’s mother and father going through that horrible ordeal.

A photograph on the front of the picture postcard shows a young couple having lunch under the Petrified Arch. Hopefully, they were able to keep sand out of their sandwiches. I also wonder if that arch still stands.

Following is the message on this card:

“Hi – Came through the Petrified Forest today it was so windy that we didn’t see all. It was terrible. You should have seen the car & trailer, sand all over. Hope it clears soon. We are near Flagstaff Arizona – Winslow. Mom & Dad”

If Martin’s mom were like my wife, I’d bet money they stayed in motels the remainder of that trip. Sleeping in a trailer full of desert sand wouldn’t have been to her liking, nor mine. There’s nothing like grit between blankets and sheets, as I’ve experienced that a few times sleeping in a tent.

The Petrified Arch in Arizona is a fascinating natural formation located within the Petrified Forest National Park. This arch is composed primarily of petrified wood, which is ancient fallen trees that have turned to stone over millions of years through a process called permineralization.

Visitors are drawn to the arch for its unique geological history and striking appearance, making it a popular spot for photography and exploration. The surrounding landscape features vibrant colors from minerals within the petrified wood, creating a stunning contrast against the desert backdrop.

While the Petrified Arch is not as widely known as other arches in the Southwest, it stands out as a remarkable example of the region’s prehistoric past and natural beauty. Driving through there in a car is something I’ve experienced several times. I always think of the petrified wood bookends that Dad and Mom purchased.

The term “woody” in my story title refers to many things, and in this case, we’re talking about a style of automobile, most popular in the United States from the 1920s through the 1960s, that featured wood or wood-like panels on the sides and sometimes the rear of the vehicle.

These cars were originally constructed with actual wood as a structural element, but later models used wood as a decorative feature. Woody wagons became iconic for their association with beach culture, surfing, and American road trips, often evoking nostalgic images of coastal adventures and classic car shows. I’m not sure that Daniel and Sue Renshaw owned a woody, but anything’s possible.

Daniel worked as a chauffeur for Jersey Zinc Company for 48 1/2 years before retiring. He passed away in 1989 at the age of 82. His wife, Martin’s mother, Sue, died in 2002 at the age of 89. Sue wrote the postcard.

Martin Renshaw was a teacher for his whole life. Born on January 15, 1940, he died on April 21, 2019, at the age of 78. It appears that his wife, Wanda, is still living. If the Renshaws owned a woody station wagon, the wood siding would probably now be rotted away in some Pennsylvania junkyard, unlike those ancient trees lying in the Petrified Forest.

There’s been a call by Native Americans and Park Rangers for people owning Petrified Forest rock and objects made from it to return them to the desert. Not doing so could result in a curse being placed upon the owner.

I’m not sure how many have done so, but bookends, ashtrays, candy dishes, and other such objects would look quite funny sitting in sand, much like the Renshaw’s car and trailer did, covered with the stuff, 60 years ago.

Next time through this area, I’ll make sure to add my parents’ petrified-wood bookends to the growing pile, with a copy of one of my books placed in the middle for extra visual effect.

GOT COMMON SENSE?

“On the back bumper of her imaginary, red BMW 320i is a bumper sticker that says: HARRIS – WALZ – 2024.”

I have my own definitions of people who have and lack common sense. Rather than open up a hornet’s nest or offend someone, I elected to let Miss Purdy, my AI assistant, give her thoughts on the subject. Miss Purdy generally goes the politically correct route on her opinions, so it’ll be interesting to see her take here.

“Common sense refers to the basic ability to perceive, understand, and judge things that are shared by nearly all people without the need for specialized knowledge or training. It involves practical reasoning and sound judgment in everyday situations, helping individuals make decisions that are generally considered reasonable and prudent.

While common sense is generally shared by most people, individuals differ in how they apply it. These variations can stem from factors such as upbringing, education, cultural background, personal experiences, and even personality traits.

For example, someone with more exposure to practical situations may develop stronger common sense, while others may rely more on theoretical knowledge or lack experience in certain contexts.

Imagine that someone notices a wet floor and immediately chooses to walk around it to avoid slipping. This decision reflects common sense because it demonstrates practical awareness of potential danger and a straightforward solution to prevent harm.

Another example of common sense in action is when a person notices dark clouds gathering and decides to bring an umbrella before leaving the house. This simple decision demonstrates practical awareness and anticipation of likely rain, helping them stay dry and avoid discomfort during their day.

On the other hand, there are situations where a lack of common sense is evident. For instance, if someone sees a “wet floor” sign but ignores it and walks through the area anyway, risking a fall, this demonstrates a failure to use practical judgment.

Another example would be leaving perishable food out of the refrigerator for hours, despite knowing it could spoil, which shows a disregard for basic reasoning about safety and health.

Interfering with a policeman while he attempts to make an arrest would not be considered using common sense. Such actions can put both yourself and others at risk, escalate the situation, and potentially result in legal consequences.

Common sense would suggest observing from a safe distance or seeking help if necessary, rather than intervening in a way that could disrupt law enforcement and create further problems.

A lack of common sense in voting might be seen when someone casts their ballot without reading or understanding the candidates’ positions or the issues at stake, failing to know the candidates’ political platforms, or simply choosing names at random.

Another instance is when a person votes multiple times in the same election, either not realizing it’s illegal or ignoring the rules altogether, which undermines the integrity of the process. Additionally, some might share their ballots or voting choices publicly in places where it’s prohibited, not considering the possible consequences for themselves or others.

Allowing people to vote without proper identification would generally not be considered common sense. Common sense typically involves ensuring that voting procedures are secure, fair, and transparent, which includes verifying voters’ identities to prevent fraud and uphold the integrity of the election process.

Skipping this step could increase the risk of illegal or duplicate voting, undermining trust in the outcome and the democratic process as a whole. This could ultimately lead to political unrest.

Allowing people to cross the US border without following the established rules for citizenship would generally not be considered common sense. In this case, common sense involves practical reasoning and sound judgment, especially when it comes to laws and public safety.

Ignoring or bypassing legal procedures for border control and citizenship can pose security risks, undermine the rule of law, and complicate resource management and community well-being. Therefore, politicians who uphold and enforce these rules are typically seen as applying common sense to protect their country’s and its citizens’ interests.

Voting for politicians who support allowing people to cross into the country illegally would generally not be considered common sense, based on the context provided. Common sense, as mentioned before, involves using practical reasoning and sound judgment, particularly when it comes to following laws and protecting public safety.

Ignoring legal procedures for border control can lead to security and resource challenges, so supporting such actions through voting would not align with the principles of common sense as described above.

This article discusses the importance of common sense in situations involving law enforcement, voting, and border control. It emphasizes that interfering with police, voting without understanding the issues, or bypassing legal procedures for citizenship and voting are actions lacking in common sense.

The text highlights that common sense involves practical reasoning, following laws, and ensuring security and integrity in public processes to protect both individuals and society as a whole.”

I thank Miss Purdy for her honesty here. Some might say that she was “coached” to respond the way she did, but they’d be gravely mistaken. On the back bumper of her imaginary, red BMW 320i is a bumper sticker that says: HARRIS – WALZ – 2024.

The woman definitely wasn’t inclined to follow the lead of the head donkey and not think for herself, like so many do. Without hesitation, I’ll say that Miss Purdy, regardless of her political affiliation, has common sense and uses it well.

DEFLOCKED

“Stupid is as stupid does!”

I usually try to stay out of writing about crime-related events, but this one has been going on for much too long and could’ve been solved long ago. It made me mad enough to speak my mind.

Regarding the Nancy Guthrie case: Mainstream media isn’t telling viewers that Tucson is basically a sanctuary city, although they claim not to be. The mayor tells everyone they’re an “immigrant-friendly town,” conveniently leaving off the word illegal. Residents voted down a proposition to officially make it a sanctuary city, but city leaders run this town as if the measure had passed.

The Democrat Mayor Regina Romero and the Democrat majority (100%) City Council voted not to renew the contract for FLOCK security cameras, against the advice of many law enforcement officers.

Democrat Sheriff Chris Nanos never mentions this for obvious reasons. Had those cameras been operative, most likely Nancy’s abductor would’ve been found on day one. The Tucson elected officials’ reasoning for not wanting cameras was that they were too intrusive. In my line of thinking, only those folks doing illegal things wouldn’t want the extra protection from cameras.

I’m glad that Lake Havasu City officials don’t think or act this way. I was told by a Washington State resident now living here, Byron Jacobus, that Havasu is one of the safest towns in the nation because so many retired police and firefighters live in Havasu. I believe him.

We have the FLOCK cameras as well, and they’ve solved many cases, just recently the one where an arsonist torched our church. The guy was arrested on the very same day of the fire.

One of the positive aspects of FLOCK security cameras is their proven effectiveness in helping law enforcement solve crimes quickly. Because these cameras can capture detailed footage and track suspicious activity, they often provide critical leads that lead to the swift apprehension of suspects.

For instance, in communities where FLOCK cameras are in use, serious crimes have been solved soon after they occurred, thanks to the evidence these cameras provided. Their presence acts as both a deterrent to potential criminals and a valuable investigative tool for police.

It’s evident to me that the Tucson mayor and city council didn’t renew the FLOCK contract for one reason, so that law enforcement couldn’t properly do their job. Sheriff Chris Nanos went along with what Mayor Regina Romero and the city council did because he lacks backbone.

It’s sad when elected officials, especially an elected sheriff, put politics in front of safety for their constituents, but for Democrats, this is a common occurrence.

Not to pick on just Tucson, here, but the Flagstaff mayor and city council were uneducated enough to do the same. Disabling cameras in that town, it’s only a matter of time, a matter of time.

As Forrest Gump intelligently said in a 1994 movie of the same name, “Stupid is as stupid does!” He was correct in his adolescent, yet philosophical analysis.

NOW WE’RE COOKIN’…

“Ralph Gorder used the statement to indicate progress was being made on a job he was doing.”

I had a co-worker who often used the term, “Now we’re cookin’ with Skelgas!” Ralph Gorder is several years older than me, and I often wondered where he got this unusual statement.

Research shows that the majority of Americans didn’t use gas for cooking until around the 1930s. Wood and coal were most common, with electricity coming along about the same time as gas.

The term “cooking with Skelgas” refers to cooking with bottled or liquefied petroleum gas (LPG), rather than other fuels such as coal or wood. “Skelgas” is a brand name that became synonymous with bottled gas used in homes and businesses. Skelly Oil Company was their parent company.

Over time, the phrase has also come to mean that things are operating efficiently or progressing quickly, similar to saying, “now we’re cooking with gas.” Ralph Gorder used the statement to indicate progress was being made on a job he was doing.

On a side note, years ago, I began using a pseudonym, calling myself “Blazo.” The name was used in conjunction with an avatar to make incendiary or inflammatory comments on columns contradictory to my political beliefs. To have done so using my real name ran the risk of physical harm. Some of those people are crazy enough to track a person down.

I was able to get my point across and then leave the building like Elvis would, with those in disagreement cursing and seemingly going into mental breakdowns because they hated what I’d just left behind. Blazo was the perfect moniker.

Getting back to the subject at hand, Blazo is actually a type of fuel, specifically a refined kerosene, that was commonly used in lamps and stoves before the widespread adoption of bottled gas like Skelgas. It was favored for its clean-burning properties and was often sold in tins for household use.

The transition from Blazo to LPG marked a significant improvement in home cooking, lighting, convenience, and efficiency. These days, we have an electric stove and oven in our home only because natural gas isn’t available in the neighborhood.

Another form of canned heat is called Sterno. A portable heat source for cooking or warming food, Sterno is often used for camping, buffet lines, and emergency preparedness. Caterers use Sterno all the time.

It comes in small, sealed cans that can be easily ignited to produce a steady flame, making it convenient for keeping dishes warm or cooking when other fuel sources are not available. Because Sterno burns cleanly and is relatively safe to handle, it has been a popular choice for chafing dishes and portable stoves for many decades.

I used Sterno while camping in Alaska when rain made it impossible to keep a campfire going. It was relatively safe to use in a tent if everything around it was cleared and flat rocks were placed beneath the can.

Many a can of Campbell’s Soup or Dinty Moore beef stew was heated right in the container this way. Since that time, propane stoves do the same thing, though I believe they can be more dangerous if not used properly, especially inside a tent.

I’ve recently come up with another canned product specifically for creating heat while camping, and I call it just that, “Canned Heat.” Searching for a proper place to store the pallet wood that I’ve been harvesting, placing it outside in the elements runs the risk of brown recluse spiders, centipedes, and scorpions seeking refuge within.

For those not knowing what pallet wood is, it’s the boards from wooden pallets used to ship items on. I have a special tool that easily separates them, while I still have to manually remove the nails with a hammer. No responsible camper should leave pallet nails behind in a fire pit.

The pallet wood is cut to fit inside 39-gallon garbage cans, and when they’re full, the lids are popped back on. This way, it’ll stay dry, and no insects can crawl inside. Before leaving for a trip, a can or two is placed in back of the truck.

Eventually filling up garbage can number three, and having no more pallets to harvest, I couldn’t help but culminate the job by saying out loud, as Ralph Gorder would do, “Now we’re cookin’ with Skelgas!”

I’ll make sure to pass Ralph’s catchy phrase on to my grandchildren for posterity’s sake.

SHOOTING UP?

“People have told me that they, too, are using the same medicine, with almost all of them having diabetes.”

My doctor just prescribed one of those A1C-lowering injection drugs because my blood sugar has remained above recommended levels. It’s been inching up over the past 10 years.

He says I’m knocking on the door to diabetes if not already there. The drug I’m taking is also popular with people trying to lower their weight, and begins with O, almost sounding like Olympic, but is spelled Ozempic.

Ozempic is the brand name for semaglutide, a prescription medication used to help manage blood sugar levels in adults with type 2 diabetes. It belongs to a class of drugs called GLP-1 receptor agonists, which work by stimulating insulin secretion and lowering glucose production by the liver.

In addition to blood sugar control, Ozempic may also help some individuals lose weight. The medication is typically administered as a once-weekly injection under the skin, most often in the abdomen, thigh, or upper arm

Each week, I have my wife do the injecting because I don’t like poking myself with anything, especially a needle. The needle in this case is so tiny that I don’t feel it, with the location changing from the left side of the stomach to the right side every other injection.

When I told a friend what I was going through, he jokingly remarked, “So you’ve started shooting up.” I’m familiar with that term, having read about druggies doing such, but I never thought of it in the same sense as me. Self-administer sounds much better.

Years ago, in Anchorage, a friend wanted me to go with him to a log cabin sitting behind a popular tavern in Spenard called Chilkoot Charlies. He was told that someone was in that old cabin who owed him money, and Gary was attempting to collect.

We knocked, got no answer, and then walked in to see at least six young people lying on blankets and sleeping bags, some asleep and others too dopey to talk. One guy was in a kitchen chair, giving himself an injection in the arm. He had a rubber band wrapped around his bicep. I’d never witnessed anything like it—immediately wanting to turn around and leave.

The fellow we were looking for wasn’t there, and it’s probably good he wasn’t. That bizarre scene has never left my mind. I suppose it’s still played out throughout the country, although back then, this was heroin they were injecting, while smoking ‘crack’ seems to be the chosen drug amongst addicts these days.

Deciding to look up the term, ‘shooting up’ refers to the act of injecting drugs directly into the bloodstream using a needle and syringe. This method is commonly associated with substances such as heroin, methamphetamine, or other injectable drugs.

Injecting drugs this way leads to rapid effects because the substance quickly enters the circulatory system, but it also carries significant health risks, including infections, overdose, and the transmission of bloodborne diseases.

Thankfully, this A1C-lowering drug pen delivers only a small amount of medicine beneath the skin and does not inject it directly into a vein. I’d never go through with a dose if it were. Unlike my wife, I have a hard time going into a phlebotomy clinic to give blood; unfortunately, my doctor requires it at least twice a year.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be on Ozempic, but hopefully it isn’t long. It’s kept in the refrigerator as recommended, and I’m reminded that injection time is mere days away each time the fridge door opens.

People have told me that they, too, are using the same medicine, with almost all of them having diabetes. That’s a disease I want to avoid like the plague—and if “shooting up” works, as Tom jokingly called it, I’ll be more than grateful.

Olá

“The children seem to enjoy my reading, but are more thrilled when Jess the parrot makes an appearance.”

I bump into more Spanish-speaking people in Arizona than I did in Alaska or Alabama. Texas was a totally different story. Not learning the language is something I always regret.

Oh, I tried in 5th grade, but never could master anything beyond simple greetings, such as “Buenos días” and “Gracias”. For some strange reason, I always remembered, “En la bibliotheca.” That means, “In the library.”

My teacher had a meeting with Mom to try to figure out how to help me improve. That consisted of using a tape recorder at home and listening to Spanish drills before going to bed. All that constant talking put me fast to sleep, and ultimately I flunked the course.

My grandchildren have attended Spanish immersion classes in Minnesota, and they’re doing quite well. Each winter, while school is in session, I’ve appeared on a live telecast from one of their classrooms, where I read a favorite book of theirs, then they ask questions. I try to add a few Spanish words to my presentation, but my vocabulary is limited. Olá is a recent addition, meaning ‘hello’.

The children seem to enjoy my reading, but are more thrilled when Jess the parrot makes an appearance. Decker, Reece, and Mykah’s Spanish instructor says that the kids talk more about Jess and his ability to mimic words than anything else. They believe he’s actually chatting with them.

“Aloha” is one of the words he especially likes, along with pretty bird, tired bird, bad bird, want to go nighty night, want some, what, okay, and several others. If there’s one Spanish word I’d like him to pick up, it’s olá, although he now says hello with perfection.

I’m trying to learn more words to help me in the podcast, if you can call it that. I’d especially like to understand Spanish conversations going on in my presence, wanting to eavesdrop. The two words I especially listen for, as young people look at me while talking, are Viejo chocho, meaning old fart.

If parrots are able to easily mimic words and sounds, why didn’t the tape recorder trick work for me so many years ago? Perhaps it would now, as long as I turn up the volume.

Evelyn Woodhead offers a speed-reading class, or at least Cheech & Chong claims they do. I learned that listening to one of their 8-track tapes back in the 70s. There must be a similar course in Spanish.

My goal here is not so much to speak fluent Spanish as I’m way too far down life’s trail for that. If I can just stumble my way through simple conversations with the grandkids, I’d be thrilled. If they see I’m trying, I’m sure they’ll empathize with grandpa’s attempt.

Should they not, as long as I don’t hear Viejo chocho jokingly whispered behind my back as I walk away, I’ll be just fine.

TOM KELLY – AMERICAN HERO

“A postcard sent from Fort Riley on July 20, 1942, turned out to have great historical significance.”

During World War II, Fort Riley served as a major training and mobilization center for the United States Army. Thousands of soldiers passed through its gates, preparing for deployment overseas. The fort was home to several divisions and specialized units, and its facilities were expanded to accommodate the surge in personnel and activity.

Fort Riley was also notable for its contributions to military innovation and leadership, with many officers and enlisted men receiving advanced training. The base fostered a sense of community among soldiers and their families, despite wartime challenges. Its strategic location and resources made Fort Riley a key asset in the nation’s WWII efforts.

A postcard sent from Fort Riley on July 20, 1942, turned out to have great historical significance. Junction City, Kansas, is the town closest to Fort Riley, and is where the picture postcard was postmarked. A photo on the front shows the Fort Riley Chapel and some soldiers standing at attention.

The nicely penned message within, sent by Tom Kelly to Mr. and Mrs. Guy Bernard in New Orleans, Louisiana, offers a bit of insight into what the new recruit was going through. Unlike some soldiers who were unhappy, Tom was just the opposite

“Hello – Army life has added about five pounds of weight and made me feel like a school kid again. If its like this all the way I think its great. – Tom Kelly”

In the upper right-hand corner is Kelly’s rank and the Army company and unit he was with. It appears he enlisted as a private, but with four years of college, he was quickly moved up to 1st Lieutenant. This was quite common at the outbreak of the war.

The postcard recipients, Guy Bernard and his wife, undoubtedly meant something special to the soldier for Tom to write them. Guy Bernard was a music teacher, with Thomas Kelly evidently one of his students.

Thomas W. Kelly Jr. attended Loyola University, majoring in music. He went by the nickname “Tom” to friends. Archived newspapers show that he played the trumpet and was involved in numerous college musical presentations.

Prior to enlisting, Tom had been briefly married to Elva Cullen, but sadly, she divorced him before he left for war. Part of Kelly’s training took place at Camp Ibis in California, a mere 60 miles from where I live. Camp Ibis now exists only as a ghost base, with some building foundations still remaining. General George Patton was the head of Kelly’s 4th Armor Division.

Tragically, 1st Lieutenant Thomas W. Kelly, born on July 31, 1917, was killed in action during the Battle of Normandy on November 25, 1944, at the age of 26. He was initially laid to rest in France, with his remains eventually returned to the States and reburied in Texas, most likely at the request of his parents. I would label him a hero.

Records show that his ex-wife, Elva, who was remarried at that time, tried to apply for military death benefits from her late ex-husband. It does not appear that she was successful.

Lt. Kelly was posthumously awarded the Purple Heart, the American Campaign Medal (Europe/Africa), and the WWII Victory Medal (Middle East). A cross atop his tombstone indicates he was a Christian.

The postcard recipient, Guy Frank Bernard, was born May 21, 1905. His wife’s name was Henrietta, although she went by Nettie. Mrs. Bernard was from Texas. Guy Bernard remained a music instructor up until his retirement. Guy died on March 12, 1982, while Nettie passed away on May 14, 1985.

Tom Kelly’s postcard, mailed to the couple 84 years ago, must’ve meant something special to them—for it to have survived!

PET PEEVE II

“The other night at home, Joleen and I were watching a movie when I heard the unmistakable sound of nails being clipped.”

A pet peeve is a particular behavior, habit, or occurrence that someone finds especially annoying or irritating, even if it might not bother others. These are often minor frustrations that can trigger disproportionate reactions in certain individuals.

Some common pet peeves are loud chewing or slurping, people who interrupt others mid-conversation, leaving dirty dishes in the sink, talking during movies, slow walkers blocking the sidewalk, not using turn signals while driving, using a phone during meals, leaving lights on in empty rooms, not replacing the toilet paper roll, and people who show up late.

While these are some of the most common pet peeves, everyone has their own unique list of things that bother them. Before I go into mine, I decided to research uncommon pet peeves, figuring there had to be some real doozies out there. This is what I found:

People who use excessive punctuation in texts, when someone moves your belongings slightly out of place, finding a tiny sticker left on fruit after peeling or slicing, when socks are mismatched or twisted inside shoes, group text messages where the conversation spirals off-topic, plastic packaging that’s difficult to open, unnecessary background noise in videos or audio recordings, people who walk slowly in the fast lane of a grocery store, when someone leaves a tiny bit of food or drink in a container and puts it back in the fridge, receiving flyers or advertisements tucked under windshield wipers.

I’m happy to report that none of these uncommon pet peeves are mine, because I’m guilty of creating a good number of them. Does anyone really care if socks are mismatched? The Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney song, “Ebony and Ivory,” comes to mind here. Some of you will get it.

On the common list, drivers not using turn signals is a pet peeve, along with dirty dishes in the sink. That’s about it for me. I can think of a couple of others that weren’t mentioned on either list.

Going to car shows and hearing someone tear down another person’s ride is a pet peeve. I always think back to my days in school, when some kid was critical of another, only because they had low self-esteem and were trying to build it up at the expense of another. It’s a psychology thing.

My top pet peeve, and one that hasn’t happened for some time, is hearing someone cut their nails during church service. I’m talking fingernails here. In Anchorage, we always sat in the front row on the balcony. Perched up there, I could perfectly hear the music and preaching, yet also catch any oddities that happened along.

Watching someone being fast asleep in the pew while others stood to sing was quite common. It was generally the children and the older people who failed to rise. That’s understandable.

It’s amazing from up high, the bald spots folks had that weren’t visible at ground level. That’s one reason alone I didn’t sit down below. Getting back to the nail cutting. “Snip, snip, snip” for whatever reason bothered me more than anything. Once this noise began, my radar instantly began to pinpoint the location.

One might think it’s easy to find the culprit, but it wasn’t. Most were sly, quickly clipping a nail and then hiding the clippers. Several seconds later, and they’d snip another. Silver clippers were much easier to spot than black ones, which were next to impossible.

Not once did I find a man cutting his nails with it always being females; age not part of the equation. Once spotted, there was nothing I could do other than burn a hole through their head with my laser eyes. That still didn’t keep them from clipping.

Our pastor was good at finding congregation abnormalities while preaching, such as stopping his sermon in mid-sentence to ask someone to cease talking, or to get off their electronic device, but not once did he catch a nail cutting in progress.

Oh, I could’ve told him after church who was doing the snipping, but what good would it do me at that point? I’d merely be labeled a snitch by the person I snitched on. These days I don’t sit on the balcony, so it’s no problem.

The other night at home, Joleen and I were watching a movie when I heard the unmistakable sound of nails being clipped. Looking over at my wife—I saw that one of her hands grasped a cup of coffee—so I knew it couldn’t be her.

We have two parrots, Jess and Aldo, who’ve been with us going on 40 years now. Jess is very good at mimicking sounds, and he coughs exactly as we do when we’re sick. Our Yellow-naped Amazon thinks it’s funny.

Evidently, he’s now able to mimic the sound of fingernails being trimmed, which annoys me more than anything. Joleen believes that he’s merely rubbing his beak sections together, and it isn’t intentional. I don’t know this for sure, with Jess not saying.

The only thing I can do to drown out the noise is turn up the television volume. Last Saturday during Supercross, the volume number was 35, and that still wasn’t high enough. “Click, click, click,” came through loud and clear.

At volume 40, the television speaker sounded as if it were about to blow—with our neighbors undoubtedly hearing the motorcycle race announced word for word. Finally giving up, I had Joleen turn things back down.

At this point, I did as I’d seen so many old men do in church over the years, I fell asleep. When I awoke, the race was over, with Joleen telling me that Eli Tomac had won. That’s all I needed to know.

As my wife covered our birds up, Jess had one last thing to say, “Ready to go nighty night?” How could anyone stay upset with a pet peeve like that?

TROY

“On New Year’s and Fourth of July, and any holiday in between, Troy could be counted on to send up commercial-grade fireworks.”

On occasion, I run into someone who likes my weekly articles, and the same goes for those who do not. Thankfully, the likes outnumber the nots at this stage. When I first started writing, a neighbor, Troy Hunt, walked down to tell me that he enjoyed the column. He became my #1 fan.

Troy was pals with two friends of mine from Alaska, Don and Mike Lowe. The two brothers lived directly across the street from Troy. My late father’s first name is Troy; Troy Hunt is the second person I know with this name.

I took a liking to Hunt because he was a personable individual, mischievous in a good way, and ornery at times. One summer, Troy hurt his foot and could hardly get around, with a friend lending him one of those battery-powered mobile carts.

A talented mechanic, Troy somehow hot-rodded the device, and it was common to see him zipping up the street, then across 95 to a convenience store. I believe he even drove it to Bashas on occasion.

On New Year’s and Fourth of July, and any holiday in between, Troy could be counted on to send up commercial-grade fireworks. The brilliant display illuminated the desert around us, but also scared the neighborhood dogs. I discussed this with Troy, who excitedly told me that he loved fireworks. During my intervention, he agreed to curtail things for the dogs.

Months would go by, and out of the blue, the house would shake, with another impromptu missile launched late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. Things would then go quiet, with me suspecting Troy was the culprit but never able to prove it. This went on for perhaps three years until Troy Hunt decided to move.

On that moving day, he came to the house and apologized for being such a nuisance, and admitted to the mysterious fireworks. I told him that I accepted his apology, but I wasn’t so sure about the area canines, including ours, Simon.

I ran into Troy on occasion, usually at a store, and he always mentioned the Sunday column and urged me to keep it up. I needed that praise because I wasn’t sure if I was doing a good enough job, with my wife being the main person critiquing things, and she could be considered biased.

Don and Mike Lowe have since passed away. Regency Drive has lost a slew of others, some friends, some acquaintances. Several of them voluntarily moved, like Troy, but a couple of neighbors have died, such as Robert English, Nick Vidas, and his wife, Diane. Our neighborhood is still a great place to live with many good folks moving in, yet it’s also not the same.

Last week, I mentioned to my wife, while we were at Rotary Park enjoying a cup of coffee, that it’d been a while since we’d bumped into Troy. I couldn’t imagine him leaving because I knew that he loved this town.

Today, we received word from a good friend of his that Troy passed away, believed to be from a heart attack. Only in his middle 50s, the man was much too young for that. Lynn told us that Troy had been regularly attending church with her for the past year, which I was glad to hear.

I knew that he hadn’t left Calvary on either Saturday or Sunday, without Pastor Chad, Pastor Robert, Pastor Derrell, or Pastor Peter showing him how to reach Heaven through the saving grace of Jesus Christ.

Hopefully, Troy made that life change decision and is now in a better place. I also have to wonder if Heaven will have a fireworks display like that spectacular one seen at Sara Park just recently. If so, I believe my late friend Troy Hunt will be leading it all.